


A Decent Arrangement

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 1. Hamilton is a Sub, Jefferson is a Dom - it's no secret.2. They're also worst enemies.3. They definitely don't think about each other like that, and never will.4. Also, Jefferson doesn't care about Hamilton in the slightest. He is not at all worried when he seems to be falling into a downward spiral. He doesn't miss their banter at work, and he doesn't have the slightest inclination to help him out.Wait. Scratch all of that bar 1.BDSM AU, basically hurt/comfort because Hamilton really needs looking after. Hopefully better than this summary makes it sound.





	1. Chapter 1

The whole thing probably stems from Jefferson being an arse. It’s a quality he shamelessly admits to – he normally values having the last word over being nice, so sue him. 

 

It’s a quality he doubtless shares with Alexander Hamilton. Their animosity has fluctuated over the years, but at the moment it is running at an all time high. When he goes to Hamilton's office, he knows, on some level, that the guy has been having a bad day. Madison off sick again, Washington under pressure from the media, Burr breathing down his neck. Far from putting Jefferson off, it creates an opportunity for goading Hamilton that he just can’t resist. 

 

He waltzes in without knocking (sometimes that makes Hamilton jump, which is just delicious), and is delighted by the sight of Hamilton startling mid-pace. Hamilton spins around to face him with a snarl. 

 

“What do _you_ want, Jefferson? I’d expect it to be clear even to you (no doubt you’re practically blind, judging by that jacket) that I am a _little bit busy_.”

 

He’s riled already, excellent. Jefferson hasn’t even done anything. 

 

“Oh, really?” Jefferson says, sitting down in the free chair without being asked, and dangling his fingers carelessly over some of the papers on the hideously cluttered desk. Hamilton snatches them up viciously. “I just wanted to have a little chat about some of your proposals.”

 

“I do not have _time_ for this, Jefferson!” Hamilton says curtly, shuffling the papers into a rough pile and slamming them back down on the desk. “Please get out. I have a press release to write.”

 

“But this really is urgent,” Jefferson says blithely, stretching out his legs to rest them on Hamilton’s desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hamilton grinding his teeth. “Because frankly your latest financial…" He pauses, as if in thought. "I mean, can we really call it a plan?”

 

“Fuck off out of my office, Jefferson!” Hamilton says, and there’s an edge in his voice that Jefferson rarely hears – enough to make him glance up in surprise. Hamilton looks stressed,(obviously), and exhausted (as always), and also so agitated that his hands are shaking. Jefferson is taken aback. Then he feels a flicker of guilt that he’s just come to taunt a man who looks almost at his breaking point. Then he feels irritated that he’d even consider feeling sorry for _Hamilton_ , and makes a snap decision to twist the knife a little deeper.

 

“What’s up, Hamilton?” he asks with a sneer, leaning back in the chair. “Washington not put you under for a while, has he?”

 

Hamilton moves so fast that Jefferson is entirely taken aback when the fist hits him in the face. He almost loses his balance on the chair, putting his feet down quickly and instinctively reeling away from Hamilton. The blow was only a glancing one, but the pain is already blooming hot and stinging down his jaw.

 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Hamilton says, wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to… Please don’t… Oh God…”

 

Jefferson looks up, because this is really even more remarkable than the punch. Hamilton, _contrite_? There’s been punches thrown between the two of them before, though that was years ago now, and certainly not at work. For once, Jefferson is completely thrown. 

 

“Appears I’m not welcome,” he says haughtily, and strides out of the room before Hamilton can stop him. Once he’s back to his own office, he settles down to properly rub his jaw (Jesus, Hamilton packs a hell of a punch for a skinny nothing of a man), and wonders what the hell is up Hamilton’s arse this week. 

 

Frankly he doesn’t wonder about it for long, because he has better things to do with his time than think about Hamilton, of all people. He half-expects Hamilton to come and apologise, but he doesn’t hear anything from him for the best part of a week. Hamilton seems to keep his head down, which is exceptional in itself. He looks away and scurries out of meetings they both attend instead of picking a fight. Jefferson makes increasingly radical suggestions that even Burr objects to, and Hamilton merely takes furious notes. 

 

Indeed a week later Hamilton does begin talking to him again, but even that is stilted and odd, without any of the furious passion that normally characterises their conversations. He says “good morning” in the corridors instead of “get out of my fucking way”. Their arguments in meetings are… lacking something. A spark that Jefferson hadn’t realised he quite liked until it was abruptly removed, and it pisses him off that he’s even _noticed that_.

 

Then again, maybe it’s because Hamilton is sick or something. The guy has been looking increasingly pale and jittery. Well, even more so than usual. Jefferson looks after himself well –alternates gym and yoga six days a week, he’s cut back on the alcohol, expensive pre-packed quinoa salads for lunch – and he knows that in comparison Hamilton probably scoops discarded fries from the gutter to shovel into his mouth, but even so, the man is looking rough. And it’s not just the normal stress – that comes with increased agitation and swearing. Whatever this is, it’s made Hamilton _quiet_. And while Jefferson _hates_ himself for thinking it, because a month ago he would have killed to have Hamilton shut up once in a while, he misses the noise. 

 

Finally, Jefferson has had enough. He’s popped to Hamilton’s office to give him some papers, and Hamilton has accepted them politely (his hands shaking again) and gone to sit quietly back at his desk.

 

“Hey,” Jefferson says, and quickly closes the door behind him. “Can we talk?”

 

Hamilton’s eyes dart up. He looks nervous. “Erm, is it about the new budget? I can organise a meeting, I think Washington would be happy to discuss it.”

 

“No, it’s about you,” Jefferson says. He doesn’t sit down. Even standing opposite Hamilton he’s closer than he’s been to the man in a long time, and up close he looks even more ill. His skin looks slightly sweaty, his hair lank, his eyes dull and red-rimmed. 

 

“Oh,” says Hamilton, and finally meets his eyes. “If this is about… the other week… When I…” He swallows. Jefferson instinctively wants to interrupt him, but this new, quiet, nervous Hamilton is putting him off his game. “If you’re going to put in a complaint, I…”

 

Jefferson scoffs. “Is this what this is about? You think I’m going to complain?! No offence, but I think I’ve been hurt worse by one of Washington’s handshakes.”

 

“You’re not?” Hamilton says. His face is suddenly filled with hope - he looks young, vulnerable. It’s an odd look on him; Jefferson isn’t sure he likes it.

 

“No. What I wanted to say is – are you ill?”

 

Hamilton’s face shutters instantly. “No. Why is it any of your business?”

 

Jefferson steadfastly ignores the second half of the question. It’s not as if he cares, after all. He’s just being nosy, and privately wondering whether Washington’s finally had Hamilton neutered or something to keep him out of trouble. “You’re lying.”

 

“No I’m not,” Hamilton says, and his voice is stronger now, at least. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

 

“There is,” Jefferson says. “What is it?”

 

“None of _this_ ,” Hamilton snarls, and thank God, there’s the petty childish fury Jefferson’s been missing. “Is any of your fucking business. So how about you get out of my fucking office before I throw you out.”

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Jefferson says, and Hamilton actually stands at that, though Christ, his legs seem to be in danger of giving out underneath him. He’s actually grabbing the table for support.

 

“Get out!” he yells. The concentrated rage, and moreover, the flying spittle, is enough to convince Jefferson to beat a hasty retreat. After all, if Hamilton is ill, he doesn’t want to catch anything. 

 

Still, he does spend the rest of the afternoon wondering about Hamilton. Odd, how the guy has been on his mind so much lately, merely because he’s been actually staying quiet and doing his fucking job for once. He’s missed their confrontations and their snarky insults more than he’d care to admit. Once or twice of an evening he’s actually thought of a brilliant way to mock something (anything) about Hamilton, and then felt regretful that he won’t be able to use it the next day because they aren’t talking. By the end of the day, Jefferson is starting to wonder if he himself is ill (it’s the only possible explanation for this odd Hamilton preoccupation). He has a late meeting and doesn’t get back to his office until nearly nine. He pushes open the door, intending to drop off a few bits and grab his gym bag from this morning before going home, and physically jumps when he sees a figure already slumped behind his desk.

 

Hamilton.

 

“What are you doing here?” Jefferson asks, as casually as he can manage. He closes the door behind him, dumps his box file on his desk and decisively goes to take a swig from the filter water bottle he left there. “You have five minutes before I lock up – some of us actually have homes to go to.”

 

Hamilton raises his eyes, and Jefferson observes him properly. Jesus, the man looks even worse than he did earlier – like he’s about to collapse, or worse, cry. 

 

“Are you all right?” slips from Jefferson’s mouth before he can help himself.

 

“No,” Hamilton says, and his voice is croaky. Jefferson blinks at him.

 

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” he tries, wondering why the hell Hamilton wouldn’t just drive himself.

 

“No,” Hamilton says. He sways a little, back and forth, and then suddenly shakes his head. “No, no, I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come here.”

 

He stands up decisively, and his legs immediately crumple beneath him. Jefferson grabs one of his arms, hard, to stop him going down, and Hamilton manages to steady himself on the desk.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jefferson says. “Because if you don’t tell me, I will actually call an ambulance and watch them drag you out of here on a stretcher.”

 

Hamilton is shaking all over, and Jefferson is loathe to let go of his arm in case he goes down again. “I… I… I…” The repetition is painful, like a slow-motion stammer, and very unlike Hamilton’s usual manner. This is freaking Jefferson out. “I’m a Sub.”

 

Jefferson pulls a face that he hopes indicates “so what?”. “The whole country knows that, Hamilton. Don’t wanna be rude, but you don’t exactly hide it. It’s obvious.”

 

Hamilton bares his teeth momentarily – an odd, primal gesture. “No, no, no, I know that, I know…”

 

Jefferson releases his arm and sits down at the desk opposite him. Hamilton starts up the creepy back-and-forth rocking again. 

 

“It’s… I haven’t been…” Hamilton gives an odd grunt of frustration, almost as if he’s lost for words. At this rate Jefferson is going to start to worry that the man’s having a stroke. “What you said, the other week.”

 

Fuck, Jefferson can’t even remember what he said. The confusion must show on his face, because Hamilton gives a growl of frustration.

 

“The… The… The… No one… I haven’t got…” Another baring of teeth. Maybe he’s finally gone feral. “I haven’t got anyone to put me under.”

 

“Oh,” Jefferson says, surprised and more than a little embarrassed that he’d pried. “Well, that’s pretty normal. Just get yourself to a clinic, or whatever.”

 

The rocking intensifies. “I can’t… I can’t… I’ve left it too long, I _can’t_ …”

 

“I don’t understand,” Jefferson says, confused. “How long has it been? I don’t really know why…?” He wants to ask what on earth this has to do with Hamilton being ill, but he’s interrupted by Hamilton giving an odd groaning noise.

 

“Just trust me,” Hamilton says, his teeth gritted. “It gets bad. Really bad. And now I can’t… I haven’t… I haven’t got anyone who can…” He makes a whistling noise through his teeth.

 

“So go to a clinic,” Jefferson says, nonplussed.

 

“What I’m _asking_ ,” Hamilton says, in a tone that clearly indicates that this is killing him. “Is could you… Could you…?”

 

“Take you there?” Jefferson suggests.

 

Hamilton says his head vigorously. “No, you fucking moron. Could you take me under?”

 

The silence is deafening. Jefferson’s head spins.

 

“You’re a Dom, aren’t you?” Hamilton spits.

 

“Yes,” Jefferson says defensively, feeling on the back foot. “I don’t understand. Why would you want me to…?”

 

“Because,” Hamilton says, leaning forward over the desk, arms quivering, teeth chattering. “Because I haven’t got anyone else, and I need it to be someone who will _do it right_.”

 

Jefferson can’t find anything to say. The wind has been completely knocked out of his sails. He was just preparing himself for a ride to the hospital, or at the very least a strongly-worded email to Washington warning than Hamilton was on the edge of a mental break, but _this_ …? He’s never thought of Hamilton that way. Would have bet his life on the fact that Hamilton hadn’t thought of him, either. His brain is frantically trying to think of reasons why this is a terrible idea, but all he can see right now is Hamilton, apparently in some considerable distress, and the knowledge that he can apparently _fix this_ is spinning within him.

 

“We’re not doing this here,” Jefferson says abruptly.

 

“Do I have to fucking _beg_?” Hamilton croaks.

 

“No, no, I mean… I’ll drive you back to mine, we can talk there.”

 

“Not sure I can walk,” Hamilton says wryly.

 

“We’ll get you there,” Jefferson says. He picks up his sports bag from the corner and slings it over his shoulder (it’s Friday, he can’t leave it here over the weekend), and extends his other arm to Hamilton. “Come on.”

 

Hamilton is very wobbly on his feet. Jefferson’s mind quietly boggles at it as the two of them limp down the corridor. Is it actually physically possible for him to be this affected, just because he hasn’t been put under in a while? He’s heard of Subs having a sort of withdrawal, sure, but this is on another level. How long has it even been for Hamilton? How long since he and the wife got divorced? Was she even a Dom? Jefferson doesn’t know. He’s still not sure that he isn’t going to have to call an ambulance, but they make it to the lift and hence the parking garage, without incident. Luckily Jefferson got in early this morning and parked close, because Hamilton’s legs give way again as they reach the car. Jefferson actually drops his bag and half drags him to the passenger seat, before returning to sling it in the back seat as Hamilton struggles to buckle himself in with shaking hands. He gets in the driver’s side and takes the buckle from Hamilton’s fingers to slot it into place himself. Hamilton slumps back in the seat in defeat, teeth chattering again. Jefferson turns up the heaters, unsure if that will even help, and pulls out of the car park. 

 

When they get back to the house, Jefferson pulls into the drive as far as he can and then goes to help Hamilton out. They’ve been silent the whole way in the car, and Hamilton seems very out of it. Jefferson has been trying to concentrate on the driving and not let his churning thoughts overwhelm him.

 

He has to almost drag Hamilton again to get him into the house. He’s very glad he’s not living in the apartment any more - this would be almost impossible, let alone what the neighbours would say. He dumps Hamilton on the couch in the lounge, mutters “stay here”, out of breath, and then goes back out to the car. The night air is cool on his skin, and he has a moment of clarity, of how fucking _bizarre_ this is all is. 

 

Hamilton is a Sub. That he knew, at least subconsciously. He’d never even considered Domming the man, though. It’s frankly unprofessional. But now he feels like Hamilton has lit a single spark, and now his mind is a wildfire with it. He doesn’t even know what Hamilton is really asking for, and the doubt and the confusion and the sudden intense, bizarre longing is bewildering. Jefferson leans back against the car and takes a deep breath.

 

For some unknown reason, Hamilton is asking for his help. That much is clear. Why, and why him, is not. Surely Hamilton has other people to choose from? The fact that he apparently doesn’t is almost depressing. Or why doesn’t he just get himself to a clinic? Most Subs go every couple of months, at least – it’s a fact of life. No stigma, nothing to be ashamed of. It’s now even free, thanks to the reforms _Hamilton_ helped to bring in. Why on earth is he so averse to going? And how on earth has he managed to get into this state? Is he honestly suffering physical effects due to, what, a lack of that kind of attention? Jefferson has never been particularly into the Sub rights movement, though he has heard of that kind of thing before. But this seriously? Maybe Hamilton is self-medicating instead. That would make more sense.

 

And now Jefferson has got to go inside and deal with him one way or another. He really doesn’t feel like he’s the best person to do this. He gave up smoking ten years ago, and yet his fingers itch for a cigarette. Hamilton always brings out the worst in him.

 

He exhales again one last time, closing his eyes for a moment, and then methodically retrieves his gym bag from the back of the car, locks it, and goes inside again. He locks the door behind him, dumps his bag in the hall, fetches a glass of water from the kitchen, and returns to the lounge.


	2. Chapter 2

Hamilton, is, surprisingly, exactly where he left him. Then again, Jefferson thinks that’s probably a bad sign. He’s still shaking, and his colour is even worse than it was earlier. He turns to give Jefferson a terrible rictus grin as he enters.

“Drink this,” Jefferson says, handing him the glass. Hamilton’s hands shake so badly that he struggles to drink it, but he manages some. Jefferson takes the glass away and sets it down. Hamilton’s hands are freezing. 

“Before we do anything, we need to talk,” Jefferson says.

“As long as it’s quick,” Hamilton says, drawing a hand over his brow. 

“Are you on anything?” Jefferson says, uncomfortable with the question. Hamilton gives an exhausted laugh.

“I wish I was.”

“You’re sure? So how has this…?”

“I told you… I haven’t been put under in…”

Hamilton shakes his head, gives that odd laugh again, stamps his foot.

“In how long?” Jefferson asks. “I’ve never seen… this…?”

“Of course you haven’t,” Hamilton spits. “Because you’re a Dom, and no one wants to talk about Subs who get to this point, no one wants to…” He stamps his foot again. “If you’re not going to help me…”

“I…” Jefferson says, thrown by the question. He remembers his original line of thought. “How long has it been, Hamilton? Six months?”

Hamilton laughs, bitter and contemptuous.

“A year?” Jefferson says doubtfully. Hamilton’s distress is affecting him - he finds himself fighting the instinct to put his hand on Hamilton’s knee, but forces himself not to.

“Let’s just say longer than that, and be done with it,” Hamilton bites out. “Are you going to do this, or not?”

“I shouldn’t,” Jefferson says, warring with himself. “This is… This is taking advantage in the worst way. You’ll… You’ll hate me for this.”

Hamilton grins. “Why do you think I chose you? I already hate you.”

That stings more than Jefferson cares to admit, and it surprises him that it does so. He knows there’s no love lost between him and Hamilton, but still. Then again, he supposes he’s a much better choice than someone like Washington. There’s a lot more at stake in a closer relationship.

“OK, OK,” he finds himself saying. “What… What do you want?”

“Take me under,” Hamilton says, and his eyes are wide and pleading. “Something, anything will help. Do whatever you want.”

Jefferson jerks back, concerned. “Hamilton… You shouldn’t be saying that.”

“I feel like I’m being burned up from the inside,” Hamilton hisses. “Anything. I mean it.”

“I’m not going to do anything weird,” Jefferson says, though he’s fighting to think of what Hamilton even considers weird. He doesn’t do this. He feels out of his depth. He’s used to Subs he knows better, who know what they want, who he has feelings for. This is weird. And the fact that some sick part of him wants it is just making it worse. This isn’t a business transaction. This isn’t something he can do clinically. Part of him really wants this.

“I don’t care,” Hamilton says. “This is your chance to put me in my place, right? Just do it.”

Jefferson inhales. He realises what Hamilton wants of him. He wants him to be the guy he is at work – careless, cruel, arrogant, domineering. Jefferson may be a dick, but at least he’s self-aware. Hamilton doesn’t want sympathy or kindness – that’s why he picked Jefferson. He wants someone to do the job without any emotion, without any questions, without any concern. And Jefferson can do that, with enough effort. He leans into that persona for a reason. He enjoys it. And he can enjoy this, too.

“Safeword?” he says, voice authoritative. Hamilton’s look of relief is gut-wrenchingly sincere and vulnerable.

“I… I’ll just use traffic lights,” Hamilton says. 

“Fine,” Jefferson says, and moves his hand to the back of Hamilton’s neck, underneath his messy hair. Hamilton freezes at the touch, the tension vibrating in him. “Get on your knees.”

Hamilton crumples bonelessly off the sofa so abruptly that Jefferson thinks for a moment he’s collapsed. His knees hit the floor hard, but he doesn’t seem to notice, staring straight ahead, breathing fast. Jefferson moves closer to him, reasserting his grip on the back of his neck. “Further down,” he orders. “Face to the floor.”

Hamilton hastens to obey. The sight of him actually doing as he’s told is as unsettling as it is electrifying. Jefferson shifts uneasily, hating himself for enjoying this. 

“All right,” he says, focusing himself. “Breathe for me.”

He expects snark from Hamilton, but there is none. Only the sound of Hamilton’s ragged breaths slowly evening as he continues to tremble under Jefferson’s hand.

Jefferson closes his eyes, realising for the first time that this might actually be difficult. “Ten more breaths, and then you’re going to go down for me.”

Hamilton inhales. Exhales. In again. Jefferson finds himself breathing in time with him. He can almost hear the two of them counting down in their own heads. Nine, ten…

He gives Hamilton a light push. Nothing. Again, stronger. He can feel Hamilton wavering underneath his grasp. They’re both holding their breaths now. A third time, so close. Once more.

Hamilton drops so hard and so fast Jefferson has to make an effort to wrest back control. It’s terrifying. Hamilton is heartbeats away from free-falling, plummeting so deep that Jefferson won’t be able to get him back. There’s a moment of genuine, dark, sickening panic, and then Jefferson stabilises him, allows himself a shuddering exhale. Jesus Christ.

It was so intense that it takes Jefferson a little while to come back to himself. He can feel Hamilton, relaxed beneath his hand, his hair soft. He can feel his other hand, clenched on his own knee, the nails digging in. He opens his eyes.

Hamilton is a puddle on the floor. Shoulders and arms loose and relaxed, his breathing easy. Jefferson is suddenly glad he cannot see his face. He can imagine it though – slack and blissed out, mouth agape. He shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, unsure of the feelings that image is bringing to the surface of his mind. It’s been a long time since he’s Dommed. He’s forgotten how demanding it is. Keeping his hand firmly at Hamilton’s neck, he reaches for the glass of water on the coffee table and takes a swig.

When he first told Hamilton to kneel, he’d fully intended to put him under and go off and do some chores – maybe set up the guest bed for Hamilton, put on some washing, do the dishes from breakfast. But after the unsettling struggle to put him under, he finds himself feeling averse to leaving him. He feels like unless he keeps his hands on him, he might slip away. Instead he reaches out for the remote and switches the TV on. He mutes it and goes to a news channel. The subtitles are dreadful, but bearable. 

Half an hour later, he decides that enough is enough. He needs to go to bed, and he’s sure Hamilton does too. They can sort out this wretched mess in the morning.

“Hamilton,” he says, his voice rough, and Hamilton stirs underneath his hand, still deep under. “Come up now. That’s it.” 

The tension returns to Hamilton’s body all in a rush, and then fades again. Hamilton stretches, groans, then drops fully down on to the ground, lying on his stomach. Jefferson’s hand unexpectedly leaves his neck with the movement, and the loss is more painful than he’d anticipated.

“Feeling better?” Jefferson asks tartly, prodding Hamilton with the end of his boot.

Hamilton slurs something that sounds like “fuck off”. Thank God, back to normal then.

“I need a drink, d’you want anything?” Jefferson asks, standing and stretching. Hamilton shakes his head, still face-down on the floor. 

Jefferson leaves the room, feeling quietly shaken. This has got under his skin, somehow. Hamilton has got under his skin. He wishes he had seen his face while he was under. Wishes he had seen him flayed open like that, vulnerable and desperate, and Jesus, what kind of man is he becoming?

He draws another cold glass of water from the tap, chugs it down, and then hesitates. Against his better judgement, he pulls two glasses from the cupboard and gets the opened bottle of wine from the fridge. Far too good for Hamilton, but never mind. There’s some leftover risotto in the fridge too, so he grabs it and two forks as well and proceeds back to the lounge, hands full. 

Hamilton is still on the floor when he gets in, breathing heavily, and Jefferson suddenly feels concern flare in him, though he reminds himself that that is not what Hamilton wants. He sets down his haul on the coffee table and turns to face him. “Come on, get up.”

Hamilton doesn’t respond, and Jefferson reaches out to touch his shoulder. Hamilton doesn’t resist him, which is ominous, and Jefferson pushes him over on to his back.

Several things hit him at once. For one thing, it’s clear that Hamilton was right – he did just need to be put under – Jesus, he looks much better than he did earlier. The sheen of sweat is gone, his cheeks have some colour, his pained expression is evened out. He also looks exactly as Jefferson had imagined (feared). Face slack and unresisting, lips full and slightly parted, his eyes dark and glassy. But moreover, he’s still under, shit.

Jefferson seizes his shoulders and shakes him, a little rough in his urgency. “Hamilton? Hamilton! Look at me!”

Hamilton turns to look. His eyes are placid and blank, without a trace of their usual fire. Arousal and disgust mingle horribly in Jefferson’s stomach. 

“Come out of it, come out!” Jefferson says curtly, and for a moment, he thinks it hasn't worked. But then suddenly Hamilton surfaces with a gasp, his limp shoulders tensing under Jefferson’s grasp, his eyes gaining that sharp intelligence back, that terrifying (beautiful) compliant expression leaving his face.

“Don’t yell, Jesus,” Hamilton croaks, and Jefferson releases him, shocked into silence with relief.

“Sorry, I… I thought you were up, and you weren’t, and I panicked.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow, and Jefferson swallows, realising he’s shown the concern he’d promised not to. “Yeah, it happens,” Hamilton says, drawing a hand across his brow. “I go down very deep, takes me a bit to come out again.”

“So I see,” Jefferson says, trying for his usual tone, and mostly getting there. “Sit up properly then. I’ve got you something. You look dreadful.”

“Fuck off,” Hamilton says, and climbs up on to the sofa. His movements are still ungainly, but he seems stronger. 

“Here. The wine is optional,” Jefferson says, pouring Hamilton a hefty measure of it, and then offering a fork. 

“That isn’t?” Hamilton asks, wrinkling his nose up at the risotto.

“No. I know the fact that it actually contains vegetables might desecrate the temple to shitty takeaway food that your body represents,” Jefferson says conversationally, digging in to the bowl. “But I actually want to live past forty, so…”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, but starts shovelling risotto into his mouth with no more objection. Jefferson deliberately slows down after a bit to allow Hamilton to finish it off.

“Thanks,” Hamilton says, once he’s done, sounding a little out of breath from how fast he’s been eating. He takes a swig of wine, pulls a dissatisfied expression, and sets it down. Jefferson suddenly realises that he’s been sitting here placidly enjoying watching Hamilton eat, and oh God, he hopes this isn’t going to become a problem.

“Do we need to… talk about this?” Jefferson asks delicately. Hamilton frowns.

“What?”

“What just happened,” Jefferson says. “Or shall we just go to bed and pretend nothing ever happened?” He can’t tell which option he’s hoping Hamilton will pick.

Hamilton wrinkles his nose again. “You might be going to bed, I’m getting a taxi.”

He makes as if to stand, and Jefferson blurts out “no!” before he can help himself. Hamilton turns to face him with a stony expression.

“If you think that this means that you can boss me around,” Hamilton says, barely concealed fury in his voice. 

“No,” Jefferson says sincerely. “But you owe me something. For this.”

“What do you mean?” Hamilton says, defensive and guarded.

“Nothing dodgy, Jesus,” Jefferson says. “I mean. You owe me one. And what I want is for you to stay here, at least until the morning. I’m not saying we have to talk, but I feel… It feels wrong to send you out after… that.”

Hamilton narrows his eyes, and Jefferson swallows, realising the concern has crept in again despite himself. But all Hamilton says is, “Really? This is how you’re choosing to cash in this IOU? Not support for one of your despicable proposals?”

Jefferson bites back his irritation. “Yeah. You’d be an idiot not to take this offer. I could ask for far worse.”

Hamilton hesitates, and then nods. “All right. I’ll stay."

“Good,” Jefferson says briskly, as if it’s nothing to him. Already he feels like he’s itching to touch Hamilton again, and the notion is disturbing. “Right, go have a shower. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“I haven’t got any clothes,” Hamilton points out. 

“I’ll lend you some pyjamas,” Jefferson says, not bothering to point out that he’s half a foot taller than Hamilton and there’s no way they’ll fit. 

Hamilton frowns. “But work tomorrow?”

“It’s Friday, Hamilton.”

“Oh,” Hamilton says, looking confused, and Jefferson doesn’t want to pry any more, lest he finds out how out of his own head Hamilton has been for the last week, maybe longer.

“Right,” Jefferson says, draining the rest of his wine with some regret and standing up. “I’ll grab you a towel, come on.”


End file.
